assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel, political commentary

I Have No Patience Left—– An Open Letter to the Instant Gratification Generation

counttoone

Like a good number of techie-type people, I generally operate more efficiently (and with a lot less stress) when my interactions with fellow humans are simple, brief and (most importantly) few and far between.  The older I get, the less tolerance I have for doling out tedious and lengthy explanations.   The pisser is that it seems that the older I get, and the thinner my patience gets, the more stupid (and hence more needy of tedious and lengthy explanations) those around me seem to be.

lovelyscream

Perhaps it sounds hard-hearted and/or arrogant of me to point out that the average person is as dumb as a post, but it’s a hard truth.  I’ve said it before, and if I knew who came up with the phrase I would credit it, as credit is due: “Intelligence is a constant, the population is growing.”    Unfortunately, there are days when I just don’t have it in me to smile and explain the same thing thirty different ways just so that I might have a chance of relaying some tidbit of necessary information into some dullard’s thick skull that he/she might or might not retain for more than five minutes.

It probably doesn’t help that I work in a business in which I have to engage in tedious explanations all day long.  I have to explain to people why this goes with this, or why you can’t use that with that, or that such-and-such is discontinued, which means it is no longer being made. Discontinued means what it is you’re looking for is not available (unless you find someone with used or old stock) and it will never be available again.  Please get that through your thick skulls, people.  There’s a reason why you can’t get all-weather floor mats for an ’86 Chevette.  It may have something to do with the fact that if there were a surviving ’86 Chevette in Central Ohio, it would be very unlikely to still have floors.  Deal.  Better yet, move up into the 21st century.

onion nuggets

These just didn’t have the appeal of chicken nuggets apparently.

Either that or they hadn’t come up with the hot mustard sauce yet.

The problem with having to tell people that they can’t always get what they want, is that unlike MIck Jagger and company, I have to listen to the asinine reactions of the instant gratification generation when their desires are unable to be fulfilled.  All Day Long.  it wears on my brain.

Another thing that wears on my brain is the upcoming contingent of warm bodies emerging from (so-called) institutions of higher learning.  I’ve said it for years that political correctness is poison, and that there will be hell to pay for mollycoddling and insulating kids from anything difficult or challenging.  Face it, in the real world there is no medal for 12th place.

12th place

Not in my world.  Or yours, either.

Now that particular dirty bird- the concept that one is “special” simply due to being vertical and metabolizing valuable oxygen-  is coming home to roost, and it’s really sad.  Now we have people getting all butt-hurt over any kind of controversy or discourse- and people who are unwilling to accept the truth when it’s right out in the open, if that truth reflects the fact that there are inherent inequalities between people because let’s face it, life ain’t fair.

nba-basketball_00296980

Hypothetically, I may have had a life’s goal to be a center in the NBA. (No I didn’t, but this is a hypothetical scenario.)  The only problems with that goal are the realities: 1. I am as white and Anglo-Saxon as a person can possibly be and live. 2. I have physical motor deficits. 3. I’m female. and 4. I’m 5’4″.  Rather than lament that I can’t be a center in the NBA due to forces outside of my control, is it not in my best interest to choose a vocation that is better suited to my biological reality?  Why should I feel compelled to change my biology or to whine and cry that it’s not fair that white, uncoordinated, short females (who really aren’t even interested in basketball) can’t be centers in the NBA?

College campuses are no longer institutions of learning, where debate and open thought are encouraged.  They have become centers of artificially inflamed outrage over everything from perceived racial slurs to “gender inequality.”  Hmm, last time I checked, “race” is something different cultures pretty much made up. There’s plenty of different ethnicities and colors, but only one human race. There are generally two sets of human genitalia, and you either have one or the other.   It’s pretty rare (and not usually natural) to have both.

 outrage-logo1

I wonder what they’re pissed about now.  Most places have a “mystery gender” bathroom somewhere.

My first reaction to the “ooh, everything offends my precious little self,”  is, “what kind of horse shit is this?”  Then I remember my grandfather mocking the hippie generation for “going off to find themselves.”  His contention was that you shouldn’t need to “find yourself” if you’re sitting right in front of your face.

smell balls

“The Emperor’s New Clothes” is one of my favorite Aesop’s Fables.  I’m dating myself in admitting that I ever read such archaic children’s literature (today the Aesop’s Fables collection would prove far too “damaging” to impressionable young children and their precious little self-esteems,) but there were some valuable life lessons in those stories.  There were important lessons in those stories, such as, “the world doesn’t revolve around you,” and “actions have consequences.”

The emperor (and I’m not just referring to Obama, but the fact that someone of his level of extreme ineptitude and overwhelming vapidity is in a position of power and influence is an ominous sign of the times) has been stark raving naked for a long time.

Let’s call the truth the truth, and clean up the political correctness bullshit before Orwell’s visions become fulfilled in their entirety.

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creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

The Nexus of the Crisis, and the Origin of Storms

hindenburg

I wish I would have thought of the title line, but it’s actually from a song by Blue Oyster Cult (later covered by Metallica) called “Astronomy.” It’s probably a good thing I don’t have (and I certainly don’t need, nor want) access to the psychotropic drugs that were available in the mid 1970s, but people came up with some hella cool song lyrics while stoned on that stuff.  Now it seems the pop stars and rappers are more worried about whether or not the words rhyme, and/or if cop-killing and sister-raping can be successfully included in the story line.  Apparently today’s drugs just don’t motivate good song lyrics.

I like that old psychedelic stuff.  The song lyrics, that is.

I found last Saturday’s short hiatus and respite to be most energizing.  I love it when I can turn off the world for awhile, and I need to do it a lot more often than I do.

Tonight I have to do something rather distasteful, although it does involve a short solitary road trip (that part of the adventure should be pretty good.)  I have probably at one time or another told the story of my grandmother’s twin sisters – the ones who, when my great-grandmother died, were about 70 years old. The both of them were rather eccentric, and their tastes were largely indulged, as they were both married to relatively wealthy men.  I never really liked either of them very much, but I acquired a little bit of contempt toward them when they got in a fist fight over my great-grandmother’s paltry belongings.

01351~Muffled-Screams-Posters

70 year old twins duking it out over a bunch of worthless old lady kitsch is a little bit over the top.   I’ve walked past better stuff at garage sales.  Great-Grandma was not a wealthy woman, and she didn’t need a lot of stuff.  None of her stuff was particularly valuable.  Neither of the twins needed any of that stuff.  It was about possession and control.  I was never close to either of my great-aunts, and after that I never really wanted to be.

Witnessing that little melee convinced me that I never want to fight over dead people’s stuff, even if it’s really good stuff.  My sisters will cannibalize my parents’ stuff, should they both outlive my parents, and they will fight over it, though the oldest one will ultimately end up with everything she wants.  If I am still alive, I won’t be there to stand back and watch.  They can have it all.  My Dad had to hide a lot of Grandma’s stuff- as well as all of Grandpa’s WWII medals and other memorabilia- to keep my oldest sister from taking everything.  What she wants, she takes.  Unless she can’t find it.

dropdead

The only reason I don’t drop dead is that I don’t think my son can stand the visual of my sisters fighting over my bras and underwear.

The older twin (I think she was 98) finally went to the Great Beyond last Saturday, and the calling hours are tonight.  I can’t take off work tomorrow to go to the funeral (OK by me) but I at least have to show up at the calling hours to keep my mother from having a coronary, and so Dad might have one sane person to talk to.  Mom’s relatives are downright weird, and they are the huggy-kissy type which is positively nauseating to me.  But politeness dictates.. so I will show up.  Briefly.  Very briefly.

I wish funeral homes had drive-thrus.  I don’t think the idea would catch on in Ohio, where people make a really big deal out of funerals and wakes, but I wish that at least that the one I have to go to tonight had a drive-thru.  Sign the book and get the hell out…

drive thru funeral

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel, political commentary

Deep and Philosophical Questions- Or Not!

spongebob tampon

I just about spit coffee out my nose when I saw this meme.

twinkie

Which one will last longer?  My carcass or an unopened Twinkie?

It is fabled that Twinkies will last over thirty years if unwrapped, but the official word from the Hostess company is that they only have a shelf life of 45 days.  I may only have a shelf life of 45 days. Who knows?

Jerry has a thing for Twinkies right now, which is good because at least there is something he will eat.  I’ve never seen anyone as picky about food in my life.  I shouldn’t lose my patience so easily with him because I know he is dealing with chronic pain and illness, but sometimes he can really get on my last nerve.  I don’t play well with others to begin with, so I have to cut him some slack.  It helps if I get a bit of ivory tower time so I can recharge and don’t have to be constantly on guard.  That’s my particular weakness- I can only deal with the rest of humanity in very small doses.  Age and time is not improving that peculiarity of mine at all. If anything I need more time alone to simply stay sane, and that is a disturbing trend.

stfu!

I  don’t know it all.  But shutting up is usually a default for me.  I’m really good at the silent treatment.

Jerry went to the campground and won’t be back until tomorrow.  So I am enjoying a little secret pleasure of blasting some Metallica (which he can’t stand.)  Normally I am not a hard core metal head- but I have my moments.  I’ll probably switch back to some Journey or some of Neal Schon’s solo stuff in awhile to mellow out.  But for now, I am having some fun with James Hetfield asking the question, “Am I Evil?”  Yes.  Humanity is evil.  There you go.

jameshetfield

James Hetfield can actually sing rather than scream.

meow

littering and

Smokin’ the Reefer…

I think weed should not only be legal, they should just hand it out randomly.  Pass it around like the junk mail circulars one gets in the mail every day. Why?  Do potheads go out and commit random crime?  Hell no. They get mellow, call the pizza dude, eat everything in the fridge and then blissfully pass out.  Nice and mellow and thank God, quiet.  Potheads aren’t out there doing violent crime.  They’re on the couch, laughing their ass off to whatever History Channel documentary (the all- Hitler-all-the-time-network, I think sometimes) or whatever Monty Python flick they can find on Netflix.  Until they pass out at about 8 or 9 pm.  That’s my kind of partier.

I can’t wait for the state of Ohio to get with the 21st century and legalize pot.  I don’t care for pot at all- it makes me tired and hungry and depressed.  I’ve not bothered with pot since I was in college back in the 80s.  I have a hard enough time staying awake without smoking something that puts me to sleep.  I never enjoyed the pot buzz, but I can clearly see the advantages of smoking pot for people like Jerry who are both hyper and deal with chronic pain. It could even help with him chronically being an asshole late at night.  Smoking a nice big bowl of ganga might be enough for him to settle down and shut up and pass out early so I can get some sleep.  I don’t do late nights worth a shit, and I’m really tired of getting woke up at all hours of the night listening to him whine and bitch- and play Eminem.

legalize-medical-marijuana

Reason #11-

So Jerry can get high, pass out early and I can get some mother effing sleep!

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Dismay? Silent Pragmatism? Disgust? Futility?- Or Just a Normal Day?

constipation wretched

There is much to be said for regularity.

I don’t know if I should be happy, sad or just pragmatic as usual.  I stopped believing in all the “happily ever after” bullshit when I was about four and first came to the realization that I am not that princess in the pretty cartoon- just an awkward, troll-proportioned, scared-shitless, nearsighted wearer of threadbare hand-me-downs.  I may have upgraded the faςade over the years, but facts are facts.  Cinderella may have had a benefactor, but there was never going to be a “fairy godmother” in my world.  I’m glad I came to the realization that I am not one of the golden people early on.

Take what you can get and be satisfied, because in order to be successful at fishing, one has to have bait.  And I never did.

fishing

Speaking of what can be trolled up from the depths, I learned why I am loathe to take time off from work even though I have way too many vacation days, and I usually don’t take them.  I took two sanity days- Tuesday and yesterday- and made the mistake of thinking that I might actually get some sleep yesterday.  I should have known that Jerry’s main goal in life is to drink as much beer as he can and to keep me awake whenever possible at all costs.  I don’t know how to react to yet another late night of “let’s get drunk and stupid and loud and play Eminem (barf, gag, retch) full blast until 2 AM.”  Dismay?  Silent pragmatism? Disgust? Anger? Frustration? Futility?  And it strikes me really odd that a 58 year old could get into someone as banal and potty mouthed as Eminem.  Even Steve-o got disillusioned with Eminem rather quickly- and this was when the illustrious Steve-o was about 12.

pragmatism

I give the .357 to no one. Nor do I let them know where it’s stashed.

Even when I’m feeling like being banal, the worst I can stomach is the Ramones, or maybe Steel Panther (they’re crude, but in a funny way)- and never in the middle of the night.

steelpanther2

Ok, so they’re known for a song called “Gang Bang at the Old Folks Home.”  At least that’s funny.

The rational side of my brain asks me (and often) why in the flying hell I stay married to an impotent, beer-soaked asshole who generally treats me like shit.  The rational side answers back, “because I can’t afford to leave,” which is partially true.  It wouldn’t be true, however, if I weren’t paying for a lot of his stuff such as groceries, scripts, health insurance, etc. and so on. Generally the emotional side doesn’t have much commentary other than to know that the whole business of relationships is pretty much a dead issue for me.  If I had sufficient cash I’d live alone- and probably should.

cat lady

Cats ask few questions, and demand so little.

cat cuddles

Never confuse “love” with “heat seeking.”

I shouldn’t even let the emotional side of my brain get in on the discussion, because the only emotion I can bring myself to feel for Jerry anymore is pity.  I know he has rheumatoid arthritis and pulmonary fibrosis and he needs a lot of help just to function.  On one side it would be cruel and possibly even un-Christian to simply abandon him, but on the other, I can really see where I’m chained to dead weight.

Monday (8-10) is our 20th anniversary.  I am not in a celebratory mood.  About the only reaction I’m having to that is that I find it hard to believe I’ve pretty much thrown away 20 years.  But on the plus side…wait…I’m trying to think of a plus side. That should keep me busy for awhile.

i-dont-regret-my-past

I should have spent more time alone.  Weird thing to say, but in my case, probably true.

I can’t change the past but I can try to find ways to amuse myself now so I don’t completely go nuts.

right and wrong

Sometimes I just can’t tell.

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